Straight fantasy.

Dream sequence.

Perfect buns
pinned with ease by touches
that tousle instead of tangle.

Curtains of hair cut under bowls
with ends flipped out or under, parted in the middle
and combed when dry.

Bangs trimmed straight across
wispy or windswept
fresh from a walk along the cobble beach.

No.

I have the kind of hair that traps the sun.

A halo of frizz that laps up fog and rain,
a spider web catching the morning dew.

My eccentric monument

of strong-armed strands
dark, kinky and coarse
with matching eyebrows and armpits
more stubborn than smooth centerfolds.

Medusa’s curse
wild and unwilling, a chaos of coils
with a habit of clinging to
the night before.

© SF Jones, 2016

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